It tells me every cloud is past With light thus round, within, above, THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE. There is a martial spirit and exultant power in this ballad that stirs the heart, like the sound of a trumpet. And how musical the verse! It is by MACAULAY, great almost in poetry as in prose. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre! The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King." "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,— For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest; And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein; D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish Count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail; And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was pass'd from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe; Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre! Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne ! return. Ho! Phillip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright! Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night! For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre! BLESSED BE GOD FOR FLOWERS. The author of this sweet poem is, we are informed, Mrs. C. TINSLEY. It was suggested by seeing a child asleep with flowers in its hand. BLESSED be God for flowers! For the bright, gentle, holy thoughts that breathe Of sunshine on life's hours! Lightly upon thine eye Hath fallen the noontide sleep, my joyous bird; One rosy hand is thrown Beneath thy rosier cheek, the other holds A group of sweet field flowers, whose bloom unfolds A freshness, like thine own. Around the fragrant prize With eager grasp, thy little fingers close; For thou art smiling still ; Art thou yet wandering in the quiet woods, Or does some prophet voice, Murmuring amidst thy dreams, instinctive say— Yes! thou wilt learn their power, When, cherish'd not as now, thou stand'st alone, "Twill come! as seasons come, The empire of the flowers, when these shall raise. Shapes thou no more may'st see; The household hearth, the heart-enlisted prayer; Aye, prize them well, my child; The bright, young, blooming things that never die; Far o'er this earthly wild! Prize them, that, when forgot By all, their old familiar tints shall bring Sweet thoughts of her whose dirge the deep winds sing, And whose love earth holds not! Prize them, that through all hours Thou hold'st sweet commune with their beauty there; TO THE RED-BREAST. This appeared in KEBLE's Christian Year, but it is stated to be the composition of a friend of the author of that beautiful volume. UNHEARD in Summer's flaring ray Too soon from Winter's scowling eye. This is a translation of one of the most perfect of the lyrics of SCHILLER, and so well done that it loses little by transfer into our language, Mark how full of substance it is. There is a thought in every line. WHAT shall I do lest life in silence pass? And never prompt the bray of noisy brass; Remember aye the Ocean deeps are mute; The shallows roar; Worth is the Ocean-Fame is but the bruit |